Second Chances
by Dreams2Paper11
Summary: Remake of my previous attempt at writing "Second Chances". AU: Danny was swept away by Freakshow that fateful night, and hasn't been seen in two years since. So what's a certain Vlad Plasmius to do when he stumbles upon the traumatized boy during a search for a powerful artifact of mind control? Father-son Vlad-and-Danny story.
1. Prologue

**A/N: This is a remake of my story, Second Chances, that I wrote about two or three years ago. The original has long since been removed; I found the grammar, poor characterization, and OOC Vlad to be disturbing.**

**So, without further delay, enjoy the prologue!**

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><p>These days, most of his memories come from vague impressions.<p>

_A snippet of laughter, low and dark and crooning. A flare of red light. Upturned faces staring at him. A dark cloth, rough and worn against his pale skin. _

Danny knows, faintly, that he is hardly lucid most of the time. Dreaming his way through life, hazily following a sparkling red orb.

–_the crowd roars approvingly as he walks effortlessly across a tightrope, a blade held loosely in one slack palm–_

Time seems to pass in a red-stained blur, in fits and bursts.

He's in the back of a moving truck now, sagging against the wall at an uncomfortable angle. The circus is on its way to a new city, where he will perform the same act once again to please his master.

The scepter keeps him complacent. It's not currently in his line of vision, but that doesn't matter–at least, not anymore. Its addictive influence has insidiously wormed its way so deep under his skin, nestled so comfortably in his brain, that he subconsciously fears the outcome of severing the link.

After the third half-remembered beating, Danny doesn't need to constantly be exposed to the orb's effects. He'd learned his lesson well. There is less pain when he obeys the master.

And why would he want to disobey, anyway?

For some odd reason, a particularly old memory _does _stick with him. He recalls reading, _somewhere_, that you never remember how your dream starts. One second, you are awake, and the next, you are asleep, and landed right in the thick of things.

The moment of clarity in the moving truck fades, along with the basso purr of the vehicle's tires beneath him. Sounds muted and distant as though he slipped underwater. He sinks easily beneath a lapping tide of red, only sleepily aware of his movements and words to the smallest degree.

Sleepwalking. It feels like he's sleepwalking all the time.

You never remember how your dream starts–you only begin in the middle of it.

He doesn't remember when he fell asleep, though.

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><p>Danny has rarely been beckoned by such a strong sense of urgency from his master, but he has felt it before. Mostly only whenever the police become too suspicious and Danny was commanded to overshadow them, to crouch in the back of their minds and whisper <em>turn around, turn around and leave, there are no problems here.<em>

He stops in his tracks, his legs melding together into a lashing tail. He'd been on his way to the moving truck, to assist in unloading the wares into the newly-erected tent, but the strength of the mental command is too clear to be resisted. He dives through the walls of the tent, invisible, hands buzzing with energy as the fierce summoning screams at him _protect Freakshow, protect master–_

He bursts through the tent and is pulled up short by the sight before him. His master is cowering, scepter protectively held behind his back. The sight jars something inside of Danny. He's never seen his master like this before.

Usually, it is Danny cowering while Freakshow looms over him.

The other ghosts enthralled by the beautiful orb appear as well, forming a ring around the intruder. Lydia, specifically, hovers closer to their master than the others. Danny knows there is a more complex relationship between her and Freakshow, one other than master and servant, but he's never witnessed it before so strongly.

"Well? What are you waiting for?" Master demands, sufficiently recovering his bravado at the sight of his minions encircling the newcomer. A condescending sneer twists his dark lips. _"Kill him!"_

The order is phrased so directly, so bluntly, that Danny feels his detached curiosity about the situation melt away, replaced by a mindless urge to attack. He distantly sees himself, after the newcomer has been taken care of, washing blood off of trembling hands. This will not be the first time he has killed because his master ordered him to.

Danny plants his feet on the vertical tent canvas, springing off powerfully for an extra boost, like a swimmer pushing off the wall. His powered right-hook catches the intruder–a tall ghost, with horn-like hair and cherry-red eyes–across his sharp jaw. Danny feels something crack under the crushing force of his knuckles. The blow sends the ghost skidding across the packed earth of the circus grounds.

Danny lands in front of his master, shielding him from view, already stalking forwards. A core of compressed energy writhes in his hands, small, but powerful enough to blast a hole through five steel sheets with just a flick of the wrist. He'll make the death–or afterdeath, more realistically–quick, unless his master orders otherwise. Unlike some of the circus ghosts Danny serves with, he does not derive pleasure from killing, or from following his master's orders. Only a sharp feeling of clarity at the moment the life leaves the offender's eyes, or as the confused shopkeeper looks over his missing wares with dismay.

The offending ghost slowly brings himself to a stand, broad shoulders tense in bridled rage. The intruder is obviously powerful, and very physically fit, with broad shoulders and a compact waist. Danny does not expect him to go quietly.

Dully, he touches the forming ectobolt to his other hand, ripping the condensed energy in two with his fingers to spread the flame to the other palm as well.

The ghost turns, delicately touching gloved fingers to his tender jaw. Danny slides into the visible plane a moment later as he advances closer. He can't explain his reasons for making himself known. Vaguely, he must want to give this ghost a fighting chance. It's not something his master would agree with though, and he feels nausea churn thick and strong in his stomach. A dog guiltily eating food from the table.

A fuchsia brand of electricity dances between the man's long fingers, casting strong shadows over the aristocratic planes of his face. Danny draws back his arm, preparing to fire his own ectoball. The light emitted by his ectobolt throws Danny's features under the hood of the cloak in sharp relief.

The man freezes, icy mask degenerating into an expression of dismayed shock.

"_Daniel?"_ He demands.

Danny stops as well, confused. This ghost should not know his name. Master never published Danny's name in the _Circus Gothica _pamphlets. He tilts his head, black eyebrow arching lightly in apathetic interest. The hood is dislodged by the small movement, crumpling around his neck and shoulders in black folds. The stranger's eyes widen further, and Danny experiences a flash of emotion–an acute, burning shame twisting in his gut. He feels the need to right the hood, to hide himself from this ghost's scrutiny for reasons unknown to himself.

"Stop staring, you useless fool! _Kill _him!" Freakshow shrieks hoarsely. Danny flinches visibly at the outrage. The warm red haze thickens like soup, plugging his nostrils and eyes and mouth and ears, suffocating him–

Before he can react, the bolt of reddish-pink lightning splits inches past him, emitting a thunderous _boom _as it breaks the sound barrier. The brightness of the energy blinds Danny momentarily and he ducks to the side, grinding the heels of his hands into his watering eyes to clear the afterimages.

Lydia lets out a piercing wail. The ring of seething ghosts withdraws in surprise, and Danny knows what he will see when he turns around, knows that he does not _want _to see it, but he pivots his upper body anyway.

Lydia is crouched over his master's smoking corpse, her hands splayed across his unmoving chest. Danny watches a tongue of smoke curl upwards from the charred skin. The acrid smell of burned human flesh flavors the air with its pungent odor.

The ghost who just _effortlessly _killed Danny's master stalks right up to him. His steps do not bend the grass beneath them. Danny realizes that the ghost is actually _floating _just an inch or so off the ground, adding to the appearance of limber fluidity. He stays still. He is strangely unsure of himself all of a sudden, his head aching. Master gives him directions. But… there is no master now, so what does Danny do?

His eyes cut from the dead body to the seething ghost hovering before him, white cape snapping around his heels. He supposes that he is now the servant of the new ghost, so he stands complacent and still and waits to be acquainted with his new master.

The ghost looks at him strangely. Danny endures the inspection patiently, mind already sliding back into the protective haze.

With a supernatural speed that even Danny can barely track, the ghost captures his chin between his forefinger and thumb and roughly tilts his head from side to side, examining him critically. The other hand rises absently and brushes the long strands of matted white hair from Danny's eyes, a strange contradiction to the severe hold on his chin. The movement is tender, slow with disbelief. Danny stiffens unyieldingly beneath the touch, subconsciously anticipating a blow. The hand gently hovering around the curve of his cheek is snatched back as though bitten; the grip on his chin is dropped.

"W_ait. Here." _The voice is lightly accented, obviously very educated and currently _very _angry. Then the ghost shoulders past him and stalks over to Lydia and the corpse-that-used-to-be-Freakshow. She looks up at him as he approaches, tears bright in her glowing eyes. His approach is welcomed with a livid hiss, the tattoos beginning to peel from her skin. The new ghost's arm darts out before she can do anything, gripping the crown of her skull. Another bolt of electricity, this time not as strong. Lydia's body seizes up and she screams shortly in agony before the stranger ends the flow of voltage and nudges her unconscious body to the side.

Surrounded by the gentle ethereal glow, his cape flaring powerfully around his legs, and his hands sparking with deadly energy, the ghost looks unstoppable.

"Does anyone else want to try?" The stranger questions, muscled arms crossed across his chest, chin tipped in a condescending look of superiority. The ring of watching performers ripples uneasily. Danny understands their uncertainty. Without a master, but still enamored by the red orb, they are a horde of chickens with their heads cut off.

The stranger grunts. "Good." He bends over to prise the staff from Freakshow's slightly charred fingers. Danny watches him hold it up to the moonlight, inspecting the red orb adorning it critically. The ghost turns, swinging it experimentally, and looks right at Danny. The eyes burn into Danny's, two cut rubies shining in the shadow of the moon.

"It's been two years, Little Badger," the man challenges him, chin jutting. A condescending smirk curls his thin slash of a mouth and he raises one shoulder in an off-handed shrug. "Amity has missed you for quite a while." His posture turns aggressive, lightly combative, as though trying to incite Danny into replying.

But he hasn't given him a direct order, so Danny remains quiet.

A beat of silence.

"Can you understand me?" Spoken more carefully, this time. The smug quality of his voice is gone, leaving behind a curiously flat tone.

It's a question. He is forced to answer. "Yes," he admits distantly, compelled to the truth.

Another pause.

"Do you know where you are?"

"No," Danny answers, just as detached. He's existed in a tornado of red colors and hues for so long… he thinks the circus might be in California at the moment. Or maybe that was a month ago–maybe they're in New York right now...

"I see," the ghost nods, eyeing him in a strange mixture of emotions–relief, anger, and greed all rolled into one. His penetrating red stare flicks back to the scepter in his hands. He turns it over in his palm, obviously mulling something over. A decision is reached after a moment. He sighs longingly, his hands tightening on the staff. "What a waste," he snorts, and then repeats as his hands slide up the metal framework to gently enfold the innocently-twinkling orb, _"a waste"._

He crushes the orb a moment later.

Danny's world shatters.

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><p><strong>AN: Review, por favor?**


	2. Withered Flower

**A/N: Oh my! I can't believe all the reviews this got, haha! I thought for sure no one would remember this dusty old story. xD **

**Pearl84: The funny thing is, when I got your review, I was actually mid-way through a re-read of Checkmate, which is the story that really motivated me to start writing two years ago and do my best to continually improve. So I guess I owe this story to you! (And incidentally, I was working on a piece of fanart for Checkmate when my laptop shut down without letting me save it. -_- But I am determined to get it digitally finished at some point.)**

**All right, I don't want to let this A/N get too long. I appreciate every one of you! **

**Happy Ectober!**

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><p><em>Vlad–Reminiscing<em>

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><p>Daniel James Fenton disappeared roughly two years and four months ago.<p>

There was no evidence of foul play, nothing to suggest that Daniel might have run away. Rather, his disappearance actually went unnoticed for an entire day, his parents consumed with their latest device and the elder sister holed up in her room studying for a big test for her Biology class. It was a thought that would plague their minds constantly in the following weeks-if only they had paid more _attention_ to him, if only they had stopped by his room and seen that he was gone...

When questioned, Daniel Fenton's friends were just as clueless. They recounted how they had all hung out as normal after school, and then Danny had said his goodbyes to them, hugged them, and walked towards his home.

And that was the last time he was seen in Amity Park.

The only out-of-character thing Daniel had done in the days leading up to his vanishing was cutting class to go to _Circus Gothica_ with his classmate, Sam Manson. But they had both been caught skipping school and returned to their homes safely without ever making contact with any of the performers or the ringmaster of the circus. Nevertheless, APPD (Amity Park Police Department) had led an extensive background search into the evil-themed funhouse. They found nothing to suggest flawed character; Frederich Isen Showenhower ("Freakshow") kept scrupulously clean tax records and act funds, and had never been in jail before. His employees, when interrogated individually, were likewise found to be entirely innocent. After a week of politely submitting to questioning from the APPD, _Circus Gothica _packed up and left the mourning town behind them, as the police were unable to find a possible reason to detain them for any longer.

Vlad Masters was on a business trip in France when, a week after Danny had disappeared, Maddie Fenton broke down and called him.

"_You're the only person he might have gone to,"_ she had pleaded, her voice wracked with a distraught mother's sobbing. Vlad held the phone pressed tightly to his ear, bracing himself against the marble counter of his hotels' kitchenette. _"P-please, Vlad, I'm begging, if you anything about where he is, please, __**tell **__me."_

He hadn't known anything at all (for once) about the matter. In fact, Vlad had purposely left the country (and Daniel) behind in order to clear his head after his million-dollar reward on Danny Phantom's head had blown up in his face. As angry at his "Little Badger" as Vlad was, he mistakenly assumed that the teenager had temporarily buckled underneath the stress of his "part-time occupation", family life, and failing grades, and had only run away for a day or so.

But then two weeks had passed… then three… and time kept tumbling together and adding up and eventually Danny had been gone for two months.

_That _was when Vlad had felt the first inkling of concern.

Vlad knew that Danny would never run away out of spite or sorrow. The boy was too deeply loyal, too enrooted in his little town and small group of family and friends. And even if by some force, the boy _had _run away, he wouldn't last more than three days before caving in and returning. Never two months.

He ruled out any type of human foul play-Daniel was stubbornly determined to keep his secret, but even the naive child would surely use his powers publically if it meant saving his own life.

Ghost intervention was the far more likely candidate-but for the life of him, Vlad could not figure out who would be responsible. He had most of the ghosts that frequented Amity pressed under his thumb, whether they realized it or not. His spectre gallery was extensive and detailed. Never had Danny encountered a ghost enemy that Vlad did not already know, whether by ear or by direct confrontation.

On and on his admittedly formidable mind toiled, creating theories and explanations that inevitably failed to explain the young hybrid's disappearance. Though Vlad knew (and often flaunted) that he was an intelligent man, he was no professional detective, and it seemed in this case that even his ghostly abilities would not lend a helping hand. He decided to leave it to the professionals, often discreetly pushing them along with generous amounts of money.

But even though money can incite motivation, it cannot produce results where there are none.

The case was declared cold after the first year mark.

And so Vlad went on with his life, understandably a bit more depressed with the knowledge that he truly was all alone now. Daniel could have taunted him all he'd like, but Vlad had always taken some measure of comfort from the fact that when the sun went down, he and Daniel were still inseparably bound together by their own continued existence. But now, with Daniel gone, even that was lost to him. There was no one to scheme against with the joy of knowing he would meet true opposition, no one to study besides himself to gather data on their own peculiar state of being, no one to tease, fully aware that his young nuisance was familiar with _both _sides of him. There would be no more plans of a carefully groomed protege to inherit Vlad's massive fortune, no wishful thinking of a young man to train with in the evenings or discuss the morning news with.

In the two years that Danny was gone, Vlad fully immersed himself into expanding his ghostly empire; acquiring servants for his castle, amassing powerful ghostly artifacts. It was pure luck that he stumbled upon the legend of the "Demon's Eye Staff", a remnant from ancient times said to be able to control the minds of ghosts, no matter the victim's strength. The legend had been scrawled across a piece of parchment in a dusty book being held in a broken down library in the more neutral areas of the ghost zone. Apparently, the relic had been lost to time, falling into the greedy hands of a human clan fully aware of the spectral world.

Vlad wanted it, _badly_.

He tracked down ghosts who held any scrap of knowledge about it, interrogated them, found trails and clues and eventually a name: Schwinnhower. He exhaustively examined family trees bearing the distinctive surname, following the dynasty through adjustments and tweaks until Schwinnhower became Shwinnhower and Shwinnhower became Showenhower.

The name sounded familiar, forebodingly so. The Showenhowers were a wealthy and affluent name, built of old money, settled comfortably in Kansas. They had a middle-aged son, Friedrich Isen Showenhower, who had left home to pursue the nomadic life of the circus.

Friedrich Isen Showenhower, alias "Freakshow", the ringmaster of the circus that had been in town when Daniel disappeared. The latest in the line to possess the artifact.

The connections were too perfect to be ignored.

The showtimes and places for the circus were posted five months ahead of time on their website. Their next stop was in New York in a week, a good distance away from Vlad's estate in Wisconsin.

The flare of hope he felt in his chest felt so unreal, so _alien_, that it was nearly painful. He found himself kept up at night, staring listlessly at the ceiling of his master bedroom, consumed by warring conflictions and turbulent memories–half-remembered fights with the young halfa, their quickly-escalated prank war, Vlad's rejected offer. Daniel's love for astronomy. The way his eyes burned acid green when provoked.

He had spent the last two years telling himself to move on, to focus into his company… but for the first time in years, he felt something other than boredom and bored discontent.

He took two days to build up his strength, and then, on the morning of February 20th, made the two-hour long flight to New York in his ghostly form. Normally, he would have taken his private jet, but he wanted no witnesses, even from his ghostly employers, if things… _escalated_.

Naturally, all of his plans of presenting himself as a stoic and ruthless ghost while stealing the artifact had been rudely punted out the proverbial window when, for the first time in years, he made eye contact with Daniel Fenton, dressed in a garish gray robe, with dull, mindless crimson eyes that highlighted his gaunt face, untrimmed white hair, and shadows clinging to his lower lids.

He looked like a corpse.

Vlad's analytical mind painted over the gaunt teenager with the more-familiar version of ignorant youth, witty and annoying comebacks that sprang readily from his sharp tongue and blazed in lively green irises.

This–this _shell _floating complacently before him…

Vlad, oddly, had felt both deeply betrayed and like something precious had been stolen from him.

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><p><strong>Vlad (Present)<strong>

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><p>Daniel weighs almost nothing.<p>

Vlad adjusts his grip on the limp body, tucking the boy's head under his chin. He's cold against Vlad's throat, uncomfortably so.

His thoughts are unusually blank. Ever since he began suspecting that Daniel was alive, he's only been able to think in _Point A to Point B_ patterns, instead of his more characteristic _Point A used to bypass Point B, turn Point C against Point D and blackmail Point E into destroying Point A_ train of thought.

He exhales out loud and chances a glance downwards at the head leaned against his chest.

Daniel's eyes are half-lidded slits, disturbingly blank. In the light emitted by Vlad's aura, he can see the pupils dilating and constricting in sporadic patterns, surrounded by writhing stratas of red and green. The boy's features are dazed, his mouth slightly open.

There's a scar on his cheekbone, Vlad realizes after a moment. He hadn't noticed it earlier. It's small, around a half inch in length, but thin and pink. A blow from a hand wearing a studded ring would have made the deep slice with ease.

His fingertips tighten involuntarily as a black tide rises murkily in his thoughts, swallowing rational thought. If Daniel registers the pain of his hold, he does not visibly react. Vlad's body is tense, his eyes glaring down at the semi-conscious boy.

"You _stupid _boy," he snarls heatedly, eyes glowing monstrous red. He is angry but there are too many justifiable causes for him to determine the sole reason for this surge of emotion. "If you had only listened, if you had only accepted me, this never would have happened!"

He's not expecting Daniel to answer him, but the ensuing silence still cuts like a knife.

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><p>After a solid hour and a half of flying, Vlad begins to register the landmarks rolling by underneath them and rely less on the satellite GPS earphone clipped to the outer shell of his ear. He is not tired, being entirely capable of physically exerting himself at peak capacity for hours before feeling the faintest stirrings of fatigue. And Daniel's weight–or rather, lack of–can barely be considered burdensome.<p>

_(He wishes he can say the same for the emotional and mental turmoil that he is sure will feature prominently in the following weeks.)_

Lush forests eventually concede to patchwork, rolling plains of green pastures, crisscrossed by white stitches of picket fences and dotted by the occasional cluster of farmhouses and small communities. Dawn is just becoming tangible in the atmosphere when Vlad's enhanced vision alights on the top spire of his mansion, gray stone silhouetted against the dark morning sky.

Daniel is still catatonic in his arms. A niggling fear picks at him- that his sudden severing of the mind control permanently disabled the child's mental faculties. Instead of dwelling on the matter, he drops altitude, swinging his feet forward to descend in standing position. A flicker of intangibility later and he is inside the house. It's quiet, expectedly so for the late hour and few amount of servants that Vlad employs. Vlad drifts through the walls of the manor until he finds a suitable guestroom, somewhat close to his own master suite. The room is tastefully decorated, with dark, thick drapes and a dark green-and-light brown color scheme repeated in the plush rug and wallpaper.

Daniel's head flops to the side when Vlad slides him onto the wide, circular-shaped bed. His white fringe obscures his glazed eyes from view.

Vlad finds himself, for the first time in a while, at a loss for what to do.

He sits on the edge of the bed, mattress dipping underneath his weight. His hand rises, pale in the dark gloom, and turns, trailing the backs of his knuckles down the dirty, frightfully white skin of Daniel's unresponsive face. Daniel's spectre form used to be tan, unusually so for a ghost, but his skin is so unhealthy and nutrient-deprived that it almost seems translucent. Vlad grips the boy's frail wrist, turns his arm over, eyes tracking the winding path of the visible blue veins.

What has Freakshow _done _to the child?

Without removing his eyes from his inspection of the limp limb, Vlad forms a duplicate and sends it off with several curt mental orders. The copy returns with a wide basin of water, a washcloth, a pair of nail clippers, a change of clothes, and a medical kit. It sets them on the handsome nightstand and, task finished, melds seamlessly into Vlad's body. Vlad dismisses the influx of sensory memory from his duplicate and gets to work, cutting away the hoodie in a single clean line with the medical scissors. He could have simply phased it off of the boy, but a part of him wants to utterly destroy the garment, completely eradicate what it symbolizes. The gaudy robe falls away on both sides like the petals of a darkly wilting flower, revealing the slim, underfed body inside. Vlad's ghostly core does a funny little leap into his mouth and his hands momentarily still, splayed over the unmoving chest.

Daniel is still dressed in his HAZMAT suit, though it seems to have undergone severe trials in its lifetime, being covered in almost too many rips, frayed patches, and worn holes to even be considered clothing. The symbol is half-torn away, like a glaring white eye, a mockery of what it formerly stood for.

The sight of the teenager still in his old fighting suit shocks him. For some reason, Vlad had subconsciously believed that Daniel would be dressed differently, an outer physical change to match the inner one. Vlad forces his hands into action once again. He phases the tattered suit off of the teenager, respectfully keeping his gaze only on the averted face below him. He changes him quickly into a set of loose silk pajamas and thick woolen socks, getting a small wicked thrill as he slips the shirt over the boy's head–the sleepshirt with the initials V. M. beautifully stitched across the front pocket. Daniel would have an aneurysm if he was well enough to understand what it meant.

That thought makes him drift off as his hands work methodically, scrubbing the layer of dirt from Daniel's hair and face, patching up and dressing the various bruises and cuts that covered his body. Would Daniel even recover? And if he did, what would he remember? All of his life? Bits and pieces? Nothing at all?

If the first option, Vlad would send him to his own private psychiatrist and wait for him to get back on his feet before drawing the younger into his schemes again. The idea of re-engaging the half-ghost teen in their old scuffles and fights excites him–he has kept his conniving nature and ambitious plans mostly on the downlow for the past two years, and the thought of shedding the boring day-to-day routine is welcomed with anticipatory delight.

But the second and third options…

Vlad wrings the washcloth over the bowl, wrinkling his nose at the flood of filthy water that flows over his knuckles into the basin. But even his distaste for filth cannot eradicate the forming smirk, silent and sharp as a knife in the dimness of the room.

If Daniel could not recover his memory sufficiently or at all, well–

–maybe his plans for _Daniel James Masters_ aren't too far off after all.

* * *

><p><strong>Danny<strong>

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><p>Danny wakes up slowly.<p>

His head is pounding, pounding so badly that it feels like someone is banging a mallet on his skull.

He is in ghost form, he realizes after a long moment. It doesn't surprise him. Freakshow does not like it when Danny assumes his human nature.

–_Master eyes him with a mix of fear, curiosity, and repulsion when Danny drops from exhaustion and the rings split around his waist and change him, and suddenly Master is hitting him across the face with the staff and demanding that he change back–but he's too tired, he can't–the orb shines–he drifts away–_

His head hurts. He can't think.

Just as well. He hasn't thought for himself in a long time. And he supposes that he _won't_ for a long time. He is now the property of the other ghost now, isn't he? The powerful one, the one with the blue skin and horn-like hair and glowing red eyes.

The–the one who broke the orb–

He sits up, using the backboard of the bed to prop himself up. He stares at his arms, his chest, his legs. The floor-length robe he has worn for so long is gone, as well as his jumpsuit, replaced by silky soft sleepwear. He turns his palms over, emerald-green eyes easily seeing through the dark of the room. His nails have been trimmed, the dirt and ectoplasmic blood and who knows what else picked out from under them.

He's confused deeply, and this annoys him. He should not feel this way.

_("Minions do not feel," Freakshow laughs from where he lounges on his throne, draped in stolen jewelry and precious gems. He crooks a finger at Danny, grinning wildly, dangerously. "Come here, pet." And Danny–Danny doesn't want to, but the orb croons at him, and he drags his feet, up and over, up and over, to sit in his spot by the foot of the throne hidden in the train's boxcar. And he sits still as Freakshow languidly waves the scepter in front of his helpless face, laughing amusedly, using the winged ornaments of the staff to hook one of the stolen necklaces and drag it over Danny's head. It drops around his neck, a solid weight. Danny feels–but _doesn't _feel, because minions don't have feelings–like a noose has been tied around his throat.)_

Danny runs his hands repeatedly over the soft covers, over the satiny-soft sheets, the fluffed pillow, confused but pleasantly so. He has not slept in so luxurious a bed in a long time.

_(Right?)_

He swings his legs over the side of the bed. His toes wiggle inside their sock sheaths. He likes how they feel, thickly supportive against his arches and pillowing each toe. His ratty socks had been thrown away _(secondshoursdaysmonthsyears) _ago. These are new.

He stands, bunching the warm comforter around his waist. His tongue feels thick and dry, and his stomach growls with hunger. He floats across the room, the blanket dragging behind him like an oversized cape. When he leans through the door, he is greeted by a long stretch of hallway on his left and right. The walls are stone, the walls brightly illuminated with flaming brackets. A modish, pleasing rug protects bare feet from the chill of the stones.

The vague curiosity grows within him. Where are the other ghosts? Where are Lydia and the others? Whenever he enters one of his more lucid periods, he is always being watched by one of the older spirits. But there is no funny tickle in his chest, no blue rush of mist bubbling from his lips to alert him of another ghost's presence.

He is alone.

The thought... frightens him.

He is not used to being alone. The red voice is always with him, or Freakshow is there, or one of the other minions. Danny can't remember ever being on his own. Uncomfortable by the sudden wide space _(in his head)_, Danny leans forward, gliding through the thick stone walls, crossing many lavishly-decorated bedrooms, sitting rooms, kitchens, bathrooms, _too many rooms._

At last, he finds himself wandering into the largest room yet–a spacious living room, with a domed ceiling over twenty feet high and topped by a paned skylight. A gigantic flatscreen is mounted above a massive hearth. An equally huge, leather, U-shaped couch rests on a thick rug. There is no fire in the fireplace. Danny wanders over, trailing his fingers along the cold, dusty metal of the poker leaned against the mortar and stones.

"It's nearly spring. I don't start the fireplace until fall."

Danny straightens at the voice, rotating his upper body. A middle-aged man in a jet-black Armani three-piece suit is leaning against the curved, tall entryway to the chamber, hands folded behind his back. His hair gleams silver, pulled back into a stylishly low ponytail. Everything about him is well-groomed, finely tweaked to present an image of solidarity and confidence.

Daniel tips his head, meeting the cobalt gaze.

The man studies him in kind, crossing his arms over his chest. After a long moment, he pushes himself off the doorjamb and flicks his fingers in a gesture saying _follow_. Daniel floats after him, clutching the blanket. There is a strange tightness in his chest and arms. Daniel pins the strange feeling after a second of hard thought–anxiety. He is feeling anxious.

He doesn't like this. Too many thoughts, too many flip-flops in his chest churning up his mind. He can't think. The red orb used to think for him. He was simply the hand at the end of the arm. Now suddenly he's an entire body, a whole person all by himself. The enormity of himself is startling.

"Do you remember me?" The man asks, turning his neck just enough to see Danny out of the corner of his eye. Danny averts his eyes instantly _(don't make eye contact)._

"No," he says. The words _Should I_?sit in the back of his throat, choking him. He shocks himself at almost letting them slip–they are impudent, rudely forceful. Freakshow would have hit him with the staff if he had heard them. What is wrong with him?

The man's cheek lifts for a split second, as though smiling, but the motion is gone so fast that Danny is unsure of whether it was ever actually there. The tightness in his chest heightens.

They enter a room branching off from the main hall- a private study, furnished with dark mahogany and walnut decor. The imposing desk is silhouetted by the large windows behind it, aglow with white morning light.

"Please, sit." The man points to a cushy-looking black leather armchair positioned in front of the desk. Danny obeys wordlessly, curling up in the boxed-in walls of the comfortable chair, his blanket swathed around his slight frame. The man takes his own seat behind the desk. A funny image leaps through Danny's mind like lightning–

–"_Your English grade is abysmal. If you don't manage to raise it within the next three weeks, I'll be forced to a call a parent-teacher conference to discuss with them why you are struggling so much." Exhausted. Danny's exhausted. But school would not understand what he does in his free time, what he sacrifices every night–_

"I suppose we should start with the basics. My name is Vlad Masters, also known as Vlad Plasmius. Your name is Daniel James Masters."

Danny connects the last names, drawing conclusions. His head still hurts, but he's thinking more quickly, more adeptly.

"We're related?" He croaks. His voice is quiet and shadowy. An impulse hit him–a feeling that he used to speak with more passion, more energy, but he can't remember why for the life of him.

Vlad dips his head, smiling congenially. "Close. You're my sister's son. She died giving birth to you, so I took you in. You are sixteen years old." He pauses, seeming sad. "Do you–do you remember any of what I"m telling you?"

Danny might as well have been a blank sheet of paper for Vlad to scribble on. "No," he answers truthfully. What Vlad has told him does not conjure any feelings of unease, or distrust, but neither does it stir up feelings of peace or love.

"I see." Vlad shudders minutely, ducking his head to run his hand over his hair. "Oh, _Daniel_."

Danny chews his lip, a question forming in his mind like a blot of ink on parchment. Vlad notices his hesitation. "What is it, my dear boy?"

"I-are you-you're… _like_ me?" He asks, the question coming out flat and monosyllabic. He has not asked a question in so long, he has forgotten to tack on the upwards lilt at the end. It comes out more as an accusation than an inquisition.

Vlad directs him a more gentle smile, more affectionate. "If by 'like me', you mean, 'half-ghost', then yes. Yes, I am. In fact," he leans forward, blue eyes burning, "we are the only ones of our kind in the _world_, Daniel. Do you understand that? The only ones. You and I–we will always be tied together, because all we _have_ is each other."

Danny mulls over this, reaching inwards. He can sense the familiar weight of his humanity high in his chest, sitting like a stone in a bucket of water. He could reach out right now and access it, if he wanted to, but he doesn't. He doesn't like his human self so much. It's too weak, too vulnerable, too useless.

"I don't… remember you," Danny murmurs, wincing as his head gives a vitriolic throb of agreement. "When I look at you–I feel nothing." His ghost form does not require him to breathe, but he finds himself sucking in large gasps of air, his entire body shaking with the force. The tightness in his chest is more severe. It feels like a large snake is coiled around his ribs tightly, so tightly that every time he lets out a breath, it constricts a bit more. His voice rises in pitch, made shrill by a ringing sense of panic. "I don't _remember you!" _And that–that feels so _wrong_ somehow, like something of priceless value has been taken from him, like some wicked thing had scooped out his insides and put another person in the husk.

He does not realizes he is crying until the fat tears splash onto his folded knees. The panic attack does not intensify or subside, but plateaus, and Danny simply sits in the armchair, swaddled by his blanket, and cries silently.

Vlad, who had been watching appraisingly up unto this point, gets out of his chair and kneels by Danny's side, patting his hunched shoulders. His hands are long-fingered and the knuckles are dotted with tiny white scars. Mechanic's hands.

Danny, lost and floundering, without the orb, without his former master. turns and grips onto those arms already wrapped around him. He is gently maneuvered to support himself against a warm, muscled chest. Danny turns his face into the shirt, still crying, shoulders shaking and body trembling as his mind disconnects, scrambles, reconnects, disconnects, scrambles, reconnects, _and on and on and his head hurts so __**much–**_

"Calm yourself, Daniel."

–_feels wrong–_

"We'll sort everything out."

–_who is he?! Who __**is **__he?!–_

"I **promise."**

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Hehe there was parallelism in this chapter with Danny and Vlad's inner monologue. Did you catch it?**

**One thing about this story: I feel like every time I write, I get so caught up in connecting details, making stupid explanations for things that really don't matter. So, to preserve my enthusiasm for this story, I'm not going into depth about every scheme and plan. Rest assured, I will explain everything Vlad said to Danny and whatnot, but if I get questions like, "But how far is Wisconsin from New York?" or "How come no one has ever seen Danny while he was with Freakshow?" or other stupid unecessary questions, I swear, I'll... uh... I'll punch a pumpkin. Swear I will.**

**...**

**Review!**


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